


I'll Tell Them My Religion's You

by Overdressedtokill (SkyeStan)



Series: Vamps AU [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood, F/M, Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-02
Updated: 2014-06-02
Packaged: 2018-02-03 02:43:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1728182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyeStan/pseuds/Overdressedtokill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vamps AU.  SkyeWard.  Ward becomes a maker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Tell Them My Religion's You

Vamps AU.  SkyeWard.  Ward becomes a maker.

[ Because Melissa is the real monster here. ](http://thesoufflegirl.co.vu/post/87504050865/vampire-skyeward-au-and-youll-need-me-and-we)

\--

He has seen people die before, plenty of people plenty of times, and he does not know where this conscience of his is coming from, or if it could truly be called a conscience at all.

He does not consider what he is about to do ‘good,’ in the moral sense.  He considers it ‘better’ for this girl than dying on the side of a dirt road.

He drops to his knees beside her and she’s already mostly gone.  She probably doesn’t even notice him there, digging his teeth into his arm to open a wound for her.

He has never been a maker, before.  They say you’re supposed to drain your progeny, first, but she’s already so far down the road of death that he thinks to try would be cruel.  Maybe that means this won’t work, but he desperately hopes that’s not true.

Desperately.  He hasn’t hoped in ages.

He’d lift her, take her somewhere safer, but her spine is broken and he knows she’s at the point where she must be entirely, comfortably numb.  He can’t cause her pain.  He doesn’t even know her.

He laments, if only to himself, that he will never know what she tasted like, what she smelt like human, what she looked like with pure life in her eyes.  But.

He tenderly opens her mouth, and ignores the way that her swollen face makes him shudder with dread.  He’s seen worse.  Much worse.  Why does she make him feel sick? 

He bites the same spot on his arm three times, bleeds into her mouth more than he needs to, just to make sure.  

He lets his blood fall into her mouth, in a stream.  It’s messy, more than a few drops, and he’s getting it all over her lips and her teeth in the hopes that some of it, any of it will fall down her throat and save her.

'Save' is a funny word to use.

But.  She needs his blood.  He doesn’t know her, but he knows she needs him.

Maybe she doesn’t.  Maybe he just wants her to.  But when he’s given her so much blood that he feels almost weak, he lets himself heal and lies beside her, almost over her, and waits.  

He should take her to ground but he doesn’t want to move her.  This will have to do.  This will have to work.  It has to work.

  
  


It takes hours.  He doesn’t know why he thought it would take less time.  Maybe he’s just over-eager, excited for something new and unknown.  He hasn’t felt excitement in a while.  Anticipation.  Feelings and days just blur by in one set point of ‘forever.’

But this.  This is an exact moment.  July 2nd,  2014, 3:28 am.  A set point.  A new beginning.  He wonders if this is what mothers go through, when they have their own little, fleshy human, when their life gives way to new life.

Then he thinks of how pretty this girl is, as her wounds have been healing, and he thinks that he is nothing like a mother at all.

Her eyes open, brown and bloodshot and hungry.  She digs her fingers into the dirt.  She looks up at him.  She opens and closes her mouth like she is gasping for air.

“Who the fuck are you?” she says.

She sounds like an angel.

He reaches out to touch her hair, now that she’s awake, and she catches his hand.

“Who. The fuck.  Are you?”

He wiggles his wrist out of her grasp.  “I’m, uh...” He hadn’t planned his introduction.  He hadn’t planned being a maker, either, but that was apparently easier than conversation.  “I’m your maker.”

She hasn’t gotten up yet.  She’s still laying on the dirt, with her hair around her head and blood dried on her lips.  Still.  He sees surprise light up in her eyes.  “My what?”

“Your-” he starts.  “Grant.  Grant Ward, 82nd Division.”

“My Grant Ward?” she asks.  “What the hell is an 82nd Division?”

“It’s-” he sucks in air through his teeth.  “It’s not important, right now.  How’re you feeling?”

“Confused.”

He tries to laugh.  She has none of it.  “You look better,” he offers.  She’s still unamused.  “Then when you were dying, I mean.  You look-”

“I was-” she says, and brings her hand to her side.  There had been a deep gash hours earlier, and the only sign of it now is the slash in her shirt and the bloodstains crusting on grey cotton.  “Holy fuck.”  Now, she scampers to her elbows, kicks up dirt in and scurries back, away from Ward.  “Holy fuck.  What are you?”

“I’m your maker,” he says, again.  “I’m Grant Ward-”

“82nd Division.  I heard you the first time.”  Her wide eyed, frantic terror is not what he had been expecting.  “You’re a maker.  Of what?”

Oh.  Oh.  That’s- “Vampires?”

She frowns.  “Bullshit.”

  
  


Now it’s his turn to be confused.  “Excuse me?” he asks.  Still on his elbows, stomach in the dirt.  Like he had been while he was watching over her.

“There’s so such thing as vampires,” she says. 

“Oh, um,” he says, not entirely sure what to reply with.  “Um.  Surprise.”

She looks at him like he’s the biggest idiot he’s ever met.  Maybe he is.  “Are you sick in the head?”

“No,” he says.  “I don’t think so.”

“There’s no such thing as vampires,” she repeats.

“I don’t really know what to tell you,” he says.  An idea.  He lights up, and she looks even more concerned, if that’s possible.  “Do you want to see my fangs?”

She sucks on her lips, which is when she notices the blood.  Her fingers shoot towards her mouth.

“No-” he tells her, reaching out.  “Don’t-it’s mine.”

“Are you fucking insane?” she hisses, and smacks his hand away.  “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“No,” he says.  “Maybe.  I’m sorry.”  He should stand up.  That would help.  He brushes the dirt off his clothes (and her blood, so much of her blood that will not come off), and offers her his hand.  She looks at his hand like it’s done her some terrible offense, and gets to her feet of her own accord, albeit on shaky legs.

He reaches out to catch her.  “I’m fine,” she says.  “I’m perfectly fine.”

“Good,” he says.  “You weren’t before and I was so worried.”

“I’ve never met you before,” she says, almost decidedly, like she’d been studying his face.

“No you haven’t,” he says.

“So why would you be worried?” she asks.

“Because you were dying,” he says.  “I couldn’t just let you die.”

  
  


For the first time, he catches a glimmer of sadness on her face.  And she seems to be registering the state of her clothes, torn and bloody.  She looks down in the dirt, where she’d been left to die.  There’s a pool of dark brown, where she had be laying.

“Fuck me,” she says.  “Fuck me.  I was really-fuck.”  She runs her hand through her hair.  “I was dead.”

“You were dying, actually,” Ward says.  “I don’t think it would’ve worked if you were fully dead.  But you’re um-you’re dead now, sort of.  You’re undead.”

She looks around, like she’s waiting for someone to jump out at her.  Something to shock her back into the waking world.  Her lip is quivering.  “Who the hell are you?” she whispers.  “Why did you do this to me?”

“I-”

“Do you do this a lot?” she continues.  She’s trying to be angry.  She’s trying so hard.  “Do you just find random strangers and-” she gestures to her body.  She doesn’t remember that hours ago, her spine was in pieces.  He does, though.

“No,” he says.  “I’ve never made anyone before you.”

“Oh God,” she says, like that disgusts her.  “Oh my God, is this some kind of ‘bride’ bullshit?  Am I going to live out an eternity being your fucking sex toy?”

“No!” he protests.  “Absolutely not.  I would never do that.  To anyone.”

“Then why did you do this to me?” she asks.

“I already told you,” he said.  “You were dying.”

“Yeah,” she says.  “And you helped me.  Why?”

The question hits like a stone to the gut.  “I-I don’t know.”

“You must want something in exchange,” she says.  “Money, or sex, or something.” She looks him dead in the eyes.  “Nobody would bother saving someone like me unless they thought they could get something out of it.”

“You’re wrong,” he says.  What had he wanted?  Why save her?  He hadn’t thought it through.  He hadn’t thought of what her voice sounded like (rough, unafraid), or what her eyes looked like open (calculating and frantic, or how she held herself (like a lioness, waiting.)  He hadn’t thought of her as a person, just as a body with a fading heartbeat.  And he’s seen so many bodies.  Why her?  "You're just...you're wrong."

“Am I?” she replies.  He doesn’t know.  He doesn’t know.  How can he explain magnetism and fate and the stars whispering ‘help her help her,’ when he doesn’t even understand it?

“Yes,” he says.  “I don’t even know what kind of ‘someone’ you’re claiming to be.”

“Just my luck, then,” she says.  “You’re a regular boyscout.”

“I’m not, actually,” he says.  “I killed a boyscout, once.”  Shut up, Ward.  Stop talking.  “He was an eagle scout, actually.”

“You sure know how to steer a conversation,” she says.

“I’m sorry,” he replies.

She doesn’t reply to that.  She looks over her shoulder, and reaches into her pocket.  “Fuck,” she whispers.  “They took my phone.”

“Your phone?” he says.

“I need to call my,” she says, and stops herself with a specific kind of uncertainty.  “My mentor.  I need to call to say I’m alive.”

Oh no.  Oh, no.  “You can’t,” Ward says, and the disgust that crosses her face when she looks back to him makes him feel a little sick.

“Fuck if I can’t,” she says.  “I’m not dead, and I want to call him.”

“It’s a him?” Ward asks, and no, that was not the right thing to ask.  “I mean-you can’t call him.”

“Why not?” she demands.  

“Because people aren’t supposed to know-”

“Oh, do not pull that on me now!” she yells.  It’s the loudest sound on the quiet road.  “Did you even think about who I was before you turned me into your pet baby vampire?  Did you think maybe I had someone who cares about me?  He will absolutely lose his shit if he thinks I’m  _dead?!_ ”

No.  He hadn’t thought about that at all.  He’d had the good fortune of having a family that couldn’t have cared less if he was alive or dead.  “We can’t just tell him.”

“Why the hell not?” she says.  “He won’t tell anyone.  Just give me a phone, let me make something up.  Something to let him know I’m okay.  We can go from there.”

“That-” he sighs.  “That could work, actually.  There’s a pay phone at a diner a few miles away.”

“A pay phone?” she asks.  “You don’t have a cellphone?”

“I’ve never really understood how they worked,” he admits.

“Holy fuck,” she says.  “How old are you?”

“Thirty,” he says.

“Thirty,” she replies, mocking his tone.  “Give me your actual age.”

“Ninety six,” he mumbles.

“Jesus,” she says.  “You’re old as fuck.”

“Not to vampires,” he says.

She almost smiles at that.  “I’m twenty-four.”

“You’re going to be twenty-four for a while,” he says.  “I-um.  I didn’t get your name.”

“Skye,” she tells him.  She puts her hands behind her head and stretches.  

“We should get you cleaned up a bit,” he tells her.  He’s going to have to give her his jacket, to cover up her ruined clothes.  And he should wash her face.  At least it’s not...what it was before.  That was unbearable.  This, her face now, is stunning, if a bit dirty.

“Before we go to the diner you mean?” she says.  “I’m glad we’re getting something to eat.  I’m fucking starving.”

  
  


He freezes.  Oh, fuck.


End file.
